


so tell me how i'm gonna get past this

by saturnblushes (writingforhugs)



Category: Captain America - All Media Types
Genre: Bail, Drug Addiction, Implied/Referenced Abuse, Implied/Referenced Drug Use, M/M, One Shot, Past Drug Addiction
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-19
Updated: 2020-04-19
Packaged: 2021-02-22 22:08:15
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 16,533
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23734486
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/writingforhugs/pseuds/saturnblushes
Summary: Eventually she said, “I don’t hear from you in over two weeks and when you finally call it’s because you want me to bail you out?”Bucky rapped his fingers against the wall. “Yeah.”In need of bail money, Bucky is left at the mercy of one of Natasha's mysterious friends.
Relationships: James "Bucky" Barnes/Steve Rogers
Comments: 17
Kudos: 113





	so tell me how i'm gonna get past this

**Author's Note:**

> Please let me know if there's more tags that need to be added. Unbetaed. Title from Troye Sivan's 'Swimming Pools'.
> 
> I was going through my docs and found this and was like 'hmm I don't remember this' and then realised it was DONE two YEARS ago and I hadn't POSTED it ugh

“I fucking hate this place,” Brock said, scrubbing his hands through his short hair. Bucky raised his eyebrows.

“It’s not meant to be a ritzy hotel,” he said, letting his head drop back against the wall. He could _feel_ the look Brock shot at him.

“Fuckin’ ridiculous, that’s what it is. Making us wait like this, wasting our time on nothing!” Brock said, voice getting rapidly louder.

“I told you not to keep shit in your car, man.”

“Fuck you, Barnes. You wouldn’t hang out with me if I didn’t have it with me all the time. You know I got the best.”

“You wanna say that a bit louder?” Bucky snapped, and Brock shoved him, eyes flashing. Bucky didn’t react, staring straight ahead. His head was ringing and the flickering light above his head didn’t help, nor did the fact that the station was way too loud and busy for a Thursday night, and his hands ached from where they’d scraped against the asphalt when the cops had dragged him out of Brock’s car and arrested him. He focused on the pain, using it to tamp down the anger he felt burning just below the surface.

Brock needed to be careful. Bucky was about ready to punch his teeth down his throat.

He was right, though, and wasn’t that the kicker. Bucky didn’t like the guy, knew he was bad for him. And yet he kept going back. He always had good weed. And before that, good _other shit_ , too. Clean, a fair price, reliable. Bucky knew not to look a gift horse in the mouth.

He’d ended up so entangled with Brock because he’d be invited over, take a hit, and pass out on Brock’s couch or porch or in his bed, or because Rollins had some real good baked goods to offer, or because Brock could be real persistent when he wanted to be, and a man had needs. So yeah, he’d been around Brock for a long time, and kept returning even though he knew better, even when he was halfway sober.

Bucky didn’t know the full extent of Brock’s rap sheet, but knew it didn’t look good to be arrested alongside him. Bucky had had his fair share of run-ins with the law, mostly from when he was a teenager getting royally fucked over by the foster system, and then he’d managed a year of good behaviour and graduated high school, but then he’d met Armin and Johann and they’d passed him off to Brock when they’d grown bored, and Brock was in Pierce’s palm, and Bucky didn’t exactly know how five and a half years had passed without him noticing.

Well, he had noticed. But looking at the calendar and realising that he was twenty six now, and that he’d wasted a hell of a lot of time with these people still kind of shocked him, made his stomach twist in regret. It had been one of the things to make him stop, to force himself to figure himself out before he ended up dead in some backroom.

Becca had somehow gotten his number and had called out of the blue, wanting to meet after all these years, and he’d wanted to see her, but he wasn’t quite ready to let her in. She didn’t deserve to see the mess her brother was. It had scared him, her ringing. He needed time, and space, and good people around him first, and then he’d call her back.

Her last call had been over a year ago, coinciding quite perfectly with Josef’s death. The two events together had spooked Bucky enough that he’d pulled himself out of his own death spiral, but he still wasn’t great. Becca was a successful college graduate now, with a job and all these grand allusions as to what _big brother Jamie_ had been getting up to all these years. He really, really didn’t want to disappoint her. Not again. He couldn’t do it, not when he was all the family she had left.

Tonight was meant to be his biggest win yet. He’d been crawling towards sobriety over the course of twelve months, had managed to hold down a job for eight, and tonight was going to be the reward for draining himself of all the shit that used to feel right. He was gonna cut his ties with Brock and Rollins, move out east, reconnect with the friends he knew were still out there, get himself together. And yet here he was. Of course.

They’d been waiting three hours already. The station was busy, though, and processing was slow. Bucky hadn’t even been allowed his sacred single call yet, and they’d taken all his shit from him when he’d been brought in.

He looked around the room, at the random assortment of men sat in the processing area. He recognised a handful of them, and could guess what they were in for. Scott Lang was in the corner, talking animatedly to a Latino man—he’d likely tried to break in somewhere and failed. Peter Quill was fast asleep in the corner, and Bucky assumed he’d been drag racing again.

Bucky looked at the surveillance camera in the ceiling. What did he look like to these people, he wondered. He’d seen himself in the mirror this morning before he’d headed to work, and he thought he’d looked alright. Presentable, even if it was just to scan products and stack cans all day. He’d washed his hair, tied it back, ironed the swamp-green shirt that made up his uniform, he’d scrubbed his shoes. He’d tried.

Then he’d ended up in handcuffs, and he’d seen the photos they’d taken of him on arrival. What was it about the camera that made everyone look like shit? Bucky’d gone from a guy who maybe didn’t get enough sleep to a haggard ghost with shadowed eyes, clearly a recovering addict. It was demoralising as fuck.

“Alex’ll be pissed if I get into shit ‘cus of this,” Brock was saying, knee bouncing. He wasn’t a particularly tall guy, but he had an aggressive face, and a jerky, unexpected way of moving that put a lot of people on edge. He’d been in a poorer state than Bucky had ever been, mixing shit, picking fights. How he got the money to pay for his lifestyle was a mystery. Bucky had struggled with keeping his job and staying off the hard stuff, and he was ten times more functional than Brock.

“He doesn’t give a crap about you,” Bucky said.

“He does,” Brock said, eyes wide, bloodshot. “He does, fuck you.”

“Alright, man, whatever.”

“He fucking does, you listen to me. I’m his right hand man, he _trusts_ me.”

“He knows you’d never snitch on him because you rely on him. He has you on a short fucking leash, Brock.”

“Just ‘cus he wouldn’t let you deal—”

Bucky barked out a laugh. “I never wanted anything to do with him.”

Brock’s lip curled. Bucky sighed, folding his arms over his chest. God, all he wanted was to be in his bed, sleeping, readying himself for the drive he had planned.

“Fuck you,” Brock spat. He was coming down from a high and was beginning to scratch at his forearm, to pick at the track marks. The sight made Bucky shudder, and a small part of him lick his lips, and he really needed to get away right now, right _now_.

“You already said that,” he said through gritted teeth.

“Nah, fuck _you_ ,” Brock snarled. “You think you’re so high ‘n mighty, acting like you’re better than me, but you’re not, alright? You’re dumb as shit thinking you got anyone looking out for you. I’m all you’ve got, alright. So don’t go insulting _my_ people.”

“ _Your_ people,” Bucky laughed, for real now. It was kind of horrifying, actually, to see Brock the way he did now and compare it to who he’d long thought he was. “Are you kidding me?”

Brock jabbed a finger into Bucky’s chest and Bucky batted it away. An officer leaning against the wall was eyeing them. Bucky didn’t want any problems. He just wanted to leave. The folks around here knew Brock, knew what he did, knew Bucky was in that circle whether he wanted to be or not.

“You ain’t shit, Barnes. You ain’t got nothing. No family, no friends but me, yeah? We’re brothers, and you wanna sit here acting like _I’m_ the problem?”

“You’re the one with shit in your car,” Bucky hissed.

“It’s for you,” Brock said. “This is _your_ fault.”

Bucky shook his head. “None of this is my fault,” he said, voice low. Brock was looking at him like he was stupid. “And we ain’t brothers.”

“Don’t be a bitch,” Brock muttered, and Bucky had to fight the urge to respond, balling his hands into fists and looking away, focusing on the hum of conversation around him. Brock huffed, disappointed.

Brock was wrong this time, at least. Bucky was a fuckup, sure, and he didn’t have much else other than a shitty car and a shitty job, but he’d worked for it. And sure, he didn’t know if his biological parents were even alive, but he had Becca and she wanted to see him. And he did have friends. He just knew better than to mix those good people with people like Brock Rumlow. They were two different worlds and he wasn’t going to be the leak that let them bleed into one another. He’d straddled that line for too long; now he was picking a side for good.

Nat knew the shit he had got himself into, but also knew he was getting himself out. She had Becca’s number too and regularly texted her to let her know that her brother was alright because Bucky could never bring himself to do it himself, mostly because he didn’t _feel_ alright, and knew he wasn’t. Nat had his back, like he’d always had hers. Not that she needed the help. She’d aged out of the system and managed not to fuck everything up. It was embarrassing to know that Bucky had been so weak. He was just grateful she’d stayed with him over the years. He sure as hell knew he didn’t deserve her.

She was one of the highly-exclusive group of people that he knew he could trust. And from them he’d hidden what he could, lied about what he couldn’t. They might have known, but he never let them see out of choice.

So yeah, Brock was wrong. He wasn’t Bucky’s family, or a friend. He was a tumour, and Bucky was ready to cut him out.

...

He woke with start when Brock slapped the back of his hand against Bucky’s chest, leaping to his feet and grinning.

“ _Rumlow, 747512,_ ” called a voice over the tannoy system.

“Fuck yeah,” Brock said, grabbing Bucky’s hand to shake it even though it hadn’t been offered in the first place. “I’ll see you around, yeah?”

“Wait, what? You’ve been bailed?” Bucky asked, furrowing his brow.

“Alex,” Brock said, like it was obvious. He was practically dancing as he walked towards the awaiting officer.

“What about me?” Bucky asked, hating the whine in his voice but unable to stop it.

“Guess you gotta wait,” Brock said, all teeth, like a shark. Bucky hated him. “Maybe you can call one of those friends you was boasting about, get them to bail you outta here!”

This wasn’t fucking fair. How come _Brock_ was the one who could waltz off home? Bucky’s only crime was being in the wrong place at the wrong time. Guilty by association was bullshit.

He scrubbed his face with his hands and groaned. He should’ve listened to his gut when Brock had texted him at work, offering him to pick him up after his shift. He hadn’t wanted to arouse suspicion by saying no, had figured he’d be able skip town in the middle of the night. Maybe if he’d stuck with his plan, he’d be at Wanda and Pietro’s place right now. The twins would’ve offered him a couch to sleep on for the night, and he would’ve been out of their hair the next morning, on his way to Nat’s. He certainly wouldn’t be here.

It was so hard to keep going. So hard, when the world kept pushing him down.

“Shit,” he muttered to himself, head tipping back against the wall. “ _Shit_.”

…

Almost an hour after Brock had left, a guard shook Bucky awake.

“You’ve got your call,” he said, stepping back a little when Bucky jerked upright.

“Why’d it take so long?” he grumbled, legs twinging as he stood.

“We’re busy.”

Bucky followed the officer out of the waiting area.

“Use it wisely,” the guard said, pointing him down to a phone at the end of the corridor. Bucky nodded and walked towards it.

He picked up the receiver—how strange to use a phone attached to the wall again—and paused. He’d planned on calling Nat, of course. That had been his automatic and only conclusion. Nat would help him out. But now he wasn’t so sure. He knew she’d been in Europe for work recently, and maybe she was back, maybe she wasn’t. She’d likely told him already, but he always forgot to reply, and then he’d felt like shit about it and figured she probably didn’t want to hear from him anyway. Now that decision was biting him in the ass.

Did he really want to call her about this? At one a.m. on a Friday? Would she be pissed?

The answer to all three questions was yes.

He didn’t want to call anyone else, _couldn’t_ call anyone else. Nat would help him. She would. He was being stupid, paranoid, letting himself believe that she wouldn’t.

He dialled before he could chicken out. It rang steadily, six, seven, eight times, and just when he thought he’d wasted his precious single call, the line connected.

“Hello?” came Nat’s voice, more awake than Bucky expected.

“Nat. It’s me.”

“James?”

“Yeah. Hi.”

“Where the hell are you calling me from?” she asked. Bucky heard conversation in the background growing fainter as she took the call into another room. “Did you get a new number?”

“Uh, no. Still got my old phone. I just—I kept forgetting to reply, I’m sorry—”

“It’s fine, James. I’m just glad to hear from you. Though I didn’t expect a call. Isn’t it like, one a.m.?”

“Yeah.”

“What’s this about?” Nat asked, and Bucky hesitated long enough for her to huff and say, “You have _got_ to be kidding me.”

Bucky listened to her cursing. It was in Russian, and she’d taught him a lot of rude words in the language, but these were much more inventive than he was used to. He just listened and cringed. Eventually she said, “I don’t hear from you in over _two weeks_ and when you _finally_ call it’s because you want me to bail you out?”

Bucky rapped his fingers against the wall. “Yeah.”

“What did you do?”

“Nothing.”

“Right. You go this long without trouble and now you’ve been arrested for _nothing_.”

“I was in Brock’s car. He got pulled over, he had stuff on him.”

Nat’s voice was flat, not hiding any of her disappointment. “Why the hell were you in Brock’s car?”

“Does it matter?” Bucky asked quietly.

“Yes it does! You promised me—”

“I still live with him, Nat. I couldn’t afford rent by myself.”

Nat went silent at this revelation, at the uncovering of Bucky’s lie.

“Are you okay?” she asked after a moment, her voice concerned.

“Yeah, yeah, I’m fine. I just need bail. They got me on possession charges but none of that shit is mine, Nat, I promise. You know that I’m going clear. I’m gonna move outta Elmhurst, right. I was gonna go this weekend but—”

“This is exactly why I need you to call me. Or text! I hate having to lie to your sister, James. I want to know what you’re doing, _how_ you’re doing.” She stopped and sighed. Bucky could see her pinching the bridge of her nose. “I’m always gonna be there for you, but you have to _talk_ to me. I can’t help me if you don’t tell me what you’re up to, where you’re even _living_.”

“Nat…”

“All this time I thought you were away from him.”

“I know,” Bucky said, the words thick in his throat. He glanced at the guard, who tapped his wrist. “Look, I’ll come over as soon as and you can yell at me then. But I need the money first.”

“I’m not in the country,” Nat said.

“I’ll stay with the twins until you get back.”

“Okay.”

Bucky paused.

“The bail is twenty thousand,” he blurted.

Nat hummed. “I thought it would be more.”

“They know I’m not a flight risk… they brought it down from thirty.”

“Well, I can’t afford that right now, James. And I’m not handing over any collateral. I never got that clock back.”

“You know I ain’t gonna dodge court,” Bucky said, a silent _this time_ tacked on the end.

“That’s not what I’m talking about,” she replied.

“Where are you?”

“Berlin. Bucharest next. Clint and I are flying home Tuesday.” She cleared her throat. “Even if I had the money, I’d only be able to get it to you then.”

Bucky felt his stomach plummet. “Right.”

There was a pause, from the other end of the line this time, and then, “I might know a guy, actually. He’d be able to pay.”

“I’m not letting no shark pay for me,” Bucky grimaced. “I’d be owing him for the rest of my life and I—”

“You really think I’d do that to you?” Nat snapped.

“I’m not letting some stranger get involved, Nat, I can’t, I—”

“He’s not a stranger. I promise he’s good. He’s a friend, actually.”

“Nat, I don’t—”

“Have you got any other choice?”

Bucky leaned against the wall. He really didn’t. He had no chance at affording his bail, even if he sold his car, all his belongings, and chopped off a fucking _arm_ and sold it on the black market. He was backed into a corner, and Nat was offering him a way out. He trusted her—that wasn’t the problem. It was relying on someone he didn’t know, letting them find out the shit he’d done, that made him feel sick.

“You trust him?”

“With my life.”

That wasn’t a statement Nat would make easily. It made Bucky wonder who the hell this guy was.

“I’ll call him right now, get him to come down and get you,” she said, taking his silence as his agreement.

“Just wait ‘till morning, Nat. Don’t wake him up for me.”

“He’ll be awake anyway.”

“Nat—”

“James, he’s good. Trust me.”

Bucky ran his hand over his face. “Fuck, fine, okay.”

“Don’t sound too grateful.”

“I am, I just—”

“I’ll call him, and he’ll get down as soon as, okay?”

“Okay.”

“Is Brock still there?”

“No, he got bailed already.”

“Good, I don’t want you around him ever again. You got all your stuff?”

“Yeah, in my car. Left it somewhere safe.”

Natasha sighed. “Good. That’s good.”

“Thanks, Nat.”

“Just promise me one thing, yeah?”

“Anything.”

“You can’t go disappearing again, please.”

Bucky stared at a stain on the wall. He blinked. “I won’t.”

“Right. I’ll call him. See you Tuesday.”

“Nat, I owe you one,” Bucky said, but the line was already dead.

…

He told the officer his bail was going to be paid, and he was moved into a larger waiting area, closer to the main desk. He slumped into a chair and pulled his jacket over his head, falling asleep at some point, his exhaustion taking over despite the man across the room screeching about his rights, and the couple arguing a row over.

He woke when a man a few seats down shook his shoulder.

“Dude, I think that’s you,” he was saying, and Bucky blinked groggily, listening to the tannoy call out for _Barnes, 325570_.

Fifteen minutes later he was carrying out the backpack he’d been relieved of upon arrival, a stack of paperwork, and walking out into the foyer. He felt a strange sense of déjà vu—he felt like he was being moved into another home with his trash bag of stuff in hand.

“It say who paid for me?” he asked the officer accompanying him. Her badge read CARTER, and she was blonde and pretty and way too put together for someone on a busy graveyard shift. She seemed the unflappable type.

“An… S. G. Rogers,” she read from the clipboard she was holding, and Bucky tried to recall Nat ever mentioning that name before. He came up blank, which didn’t ease his nerves one bit.

It wasn’t like he could do anything now. He was as he was, and all he could do was hope that this mysterious Rogers wasn’t going to take one look at him and ask for his money back.

And then he rounded the corner, and he saw a man stood just inside of the main door. He was tall, a few inches on Bucky, and was built like a wet dream, like a damn science experiment. Broad shoulders tapering down to slim hips, a jaw like marble. Golden hair, neat and effortless, blue eyes. He stood with one hand in his pocket and the other holding his phone, which he was staring at intently. He was in a fancy suit, too, jacket and tie and matching pocket square, the material perfectly tailored. Bucky felt his jaw drop, because _damn_ , and then he thought about how he looked—pathetic, holding his belongings like a beggar—and stood upright, lifting his chin, squaring his shoulders.

Bucky was a gremlin crawling out of the depths of the criminal underworld, and S. G. Rogers was wholly out of place. He and Officer Carter were too perfect. It made Bucky suspicious.

Rogers looked up when Bucky and the officer approached, sliding his phone into his pocket and offering a smile. It was a nice one, but it seemed more politely curious than genuinely happy, which Bucky expected. What he didn’t expect was for the man’s eyes to run up and down his body, assessing.

“James?” he said, reaching out his hand. “Steve. Natasha has told me much about you.”

Bucky fumbled with his things and shook. “Right. Hi.”

“Sharon, how are you?” Steve asked the officer, and Bucky tried to puzzle the two of them out.

“I’m just fine, Steve,” she replied, looking amused. “Staying out of trouble?”

“Always,” Steve quipped back, smiling, and Sharon handed him a document, pointing to where he needed to sign. She ran through some more details before handing both of them some more papers, and then left, wishing _you boys a good night_.

Bucky shuffled his feet. “Sorry about this,” he said. “I told Nat not to, but I—I didn’t have anyone else, and she said you’d do it, so...” He grimaced. “Thanks, I mean.”

Steve waved his hand. “It’s not a problem. You got all your stuff?” When Bucky nodded, Steve did the same. “Great, let’s go.”

Bucky followed him out into the night, trying to keep cool and collected, but this dude was so not what Bucky was expecting. What he had been expecting, he wasn’t sure, because Natasha had connections with a wide variety of people, but Bucky and Steve really represented the two extremes of that spectrum.

“You alright?” Steve said as they crossed the lot.

“I’m fine,” Bucky replied, looking at the handful of cars parked there. He cleared his throat. “How’d you know Nat?”

“Work,” Steve said, not dismissive, exactly, but not inviting more questions. Bucky nodded. He knew when he wasn’t wanted. “How about you?” Steve asked, pulling out some car keys.

“Uh, we grew up together,” Bucky said, for lack of a simpler explanation. Steve unlocked a sleek black Mercedes and Bucky felt his mouth drop open. “This is your car?” he asked, coming to stop as Steve rounded the vehicle.

“Yeah, jump in,” he said, and Bucky blindly did as he was told, easing the passenger door open to reveal a clean leather interior with all the bells and whistles a car could have. He felt like an imposter as he slid into the seat, staring at the inside of the vehicle with wide eyes.

“This is… such a nice car,” he said, and Steve put on his seatbelt.

“Don’t get to use it as much as I’d like, believe it or not, so you’re doing me a favour, actually.”

Bucky almost laughed, but then Steve revved the engine and Bucky heard it rumble to life and heard his inner five-year-old screech in excitement. He quickly pushed the feeling down, blinking hard.

Steve glided out of the lot and into the street. Bucky watched the station recede into the background in the mirror. He was glad to see it gone, even if it meant he was now at the mercy of a total stranger.

His heart leapt.

“Should I have asked for proof that you’re who you say you are?” he asked as the car idled at a red light.

“You think I’m in the habit of picking up people’s bail?”

Bucky shrugged. “Everyone needs a hobby.”

“A little expensive, no? And risky. I’d have better luck at poker.”

Bucky hummed. “I’m sure Nat wouldn’t risk her friendship with you over me.”

Steve passed Bucky his unlocked phone. “Put your mind at ease,” he said, and Bucky took the phone. “As if the station would’ve let some random dude drive off with you,” he added, but Bucky ignored him, staring at the text conversation open on the screen. It was between Steve and Nat, and the number matched.

 **Natasha:** _Can you do me a huge favour?_

 **Steve:** _What will it cost me?_

 **Natasha:** _Funnily enough, actual money this time._

 **Steve:** _Will I regret it?_

 **Natasha:** _No. You’ll love it._

Following that was a five minute call.

“Knowing Nat, I wouldn’t be surprised if you were a murderer,” he said, handing Steve the phone. “Thanks.”

They joined the highway, the car sliding past the others on the road, powerful and fast. Bucky sat in his seat and gripped his stuff to his chest. There was a few minutes of silence, and he didn’t know what the hell to do or say.

“So,” he said. “Why are you awake at two in the morning?”

“I run a business and one of my colleagues is in London right now. I have to be awake for her in case she calls.”

“In a monkey suit?”

“I feel stupid sat in sweatpants while in a conference call, and you never know when you need to skype some fancy investor. Better to be prepared.”

“Huh.”

“And this isn’t a _monkey suit_ ,” Steve said. “It’s a custom Tom Ford.”

“Could’ve fooled me,” Bucky said, eyeing Steve appreciatively, because damn, _custom?_ , and also, he looked good, made heat pool low in his stomach.

Steve grinned. “I’m not always awake this early.”

“So you’re telling me you went to bed at like, seven, and then woke up?”

“I napped. I’m a morning person but I’m not crazy. My schedule will be back to normal soon, though.”

“Sure,” Bucky said, leaning back and little, settling against the plush leather. These seats were like clouds. The ones in his own car were like cinderblocks, and were currently loaded with all his worldly possessions.

“Hey, if it wasn’t for me, you would’ve still be sat in the station.”

“My hero,” Bucky said, and Steve shrugged as if that was an expected title for him to hold. Bucky looked out into the road at the passing traffic. Where was Brock right now? Home, talking shit to Rollins? Waiting to talk to Pierce? Did it matter?

No, it didn’t. It didn’t matter. Bucky wasn’t going back.

It felt oddly freeing, being sat next to a stranger, a person he had no choice but to trust because Nat had given him her word, in a fast car in the middle of the night, speeding through the city. He could feel the chains that had attached him to Brock and Rollins and further still to Armin and Johann, and further again to the chains that had tripped him up all those years ago and set him on the path he’d ended up stuck on for so long—he could feel them slipping off his back, link by link, clattering onto the asphalt, trailing away into the darkness.

Nat had promised him Steve was trustworthy. That he wasn’t a shark. That Bucky wasn’t going to paying for this for the rest of his life. But this was one more chain added, even as the others fell, and Bucky had to say something. Had to try and figure out how he was going to break it.

“How’d you want me to go about paying you back?” he asked, feeling small. He’d never really felt like that before, or he had, but he’d covered it in a thick layer of anger and shouldered his way through everything. Now he was at the mercy of this man. Nat had promised, but Nat didn’t know everything, didn’t know the exact depths to which a person could fall if someone gave them a big enough push. He was vulnerable right now; if Steve wanted, he could prevent Bucky from ever getting back up.

Steve shook his head. “Look, Nat said you were innocent, and I’ll get my money back as long as you go to your court dates, and even if things don’t go as planned, I’m not going to hold it over you. We’ll figure something out. But I’m not an asshole. And I owed Nat a favour.”

“But _twenty thousand dollars_?” Bucky asked. He felt uncomfortable, his skin felt itchy.

“It was a big favour,” Steve said nonchalantly. There was a few seconds where neither of them said anything, but Bucky watched Steve’s hands on the steering wheel and saw shiny scars over his knuckles and had so many questions to ask but kept them locked down in his chest because he sensed Steve was about to say something.

“James,” he said.

“Bucky,” Bucky corrected immediately.

“ _Bucky_ ,” Steve amended. “I don’t know how much Natasha has told you about me—”

“Literally nothing.”

Steve laughed lightly. “Sounds about right. What I’m trying to say is that I’m not some sleazy debt collector. I’m not going to hound you over paying me back. I’m not going to ruin your life. I’ve had enough of that in my own life and I’m not about to do the same to someone else, especially someone who’s a decent human being. So trust me when I say I don’t expect you to pay me back every last dime, if any.”

Bucky blinked. Perhaps he was still in the station, and this was all a dream.

Steve flicked on the blinker and glanced at him. “What, you thought I was some white-collar douche who had everything handed to him?”

“No…” Bucky said, too slowly for it to sound convincing. “I mean, Nat wouldn’t trust anyone who hadn’t at least worked for their life.”

Steve nodded. “Natasha knows what she’s doing. So do I.”

Bucky hummed at the assurance of competency. He wanted to believe, but he couldn’t. Not quite.

His stomach rumbled as they passed through the city, and he cleared his throat, trying to hide it. He hadn’t eaten since midday, and he was starving now.

“You wanna grab something to eat?” Steve asked.

“Ah, no, it’s fine,” Bucky shook his head. “If you can drop me downtown, or even just by the bus station, I have a place to go.”

Steve glanced at him again, eyebrow raised. Bucky glanced and then looked away when Steve didn’t, feeling like Steve somehow knew that everything Bucky had was in his shitty car.

“You can pay if it makes you feel better,” Steve said. “I could do with some fast food right now.”

Bucky stared out of the window, at the glittering towers around him. “Okay,” he said. “But no fancy shit.”

Steve exhaled in amusement and changed lanes, speeding towards the intersection.

…

 _Martinelli’s_ was a small but well-kept diner just off the highway, open 24/7 but deserted at this time.

There was no one to greet the two men as they entered, no one at the counter, either, but Bucky could hear voices and kitchen sounds through a pair of double doors. It was warm inside, softly lit in yellow, and there were only three women sat by the window, all of whom looked like they were trying to pre-emptively halt an impending hangover.

Steve chose a booth and Bucky slid onto the upholstered bench, watching his companion shed his jacket. His white shirt underneath was an obscene sight, tight without being obnoxious, the material hugging the shape of his body.

Bucky cleared his throat and reached for a menu.

“You been here before?” Steve asked, doing the same. Bucky shook his head, eyeing the items listed. “I used to come here all the time with my mother. They have great pancakes.”

Bucky nodded. “You bring strangers here too?” he asked, and Steve shrugged again, smiling.

“ _Martinelli’s_ is for all folks,” he said. “And trust me, you get all sorts in here.”

A waitress appeared after a few minutes with a pitcher of water, looking frazzled but still offering them a smile. She took their orders and left them, and Bucky focused on the condensation on his glass rather than up on Steve, who he could feel was looking at him but didn’t have the guts to check. He just thought about Brock and Rollins and the arrest and how pissed he was that he hadn’t just _left_ , that he hadn’t just got into his car and ignored Brock’s texts and driven away from all of that shit when he still had the chance. He was weak. That was his problem.

Steve’s phone buzzed, making the table vibrate, and Bucky watched him pick it up and answer the call.

“Hey,” Steve said, his voice deep and quiet. Bucky let his gaze drift over to the counter, trying to act like he wasn’t listening. “No, no I’m not,” Steve said. “Saw Sharon at the station. Yeah, yeah.” Bucky glanced over and Steve grinned at him. “I’m doing Natasha a favour.” Bucky grabbed his glass and brought it to his lips before he could say anything stupid. “Alright, sure. Yeah. Okay, see you later Peg, alright, bye.”

Steve ended the call and put it in his pocket.

“Nat make you do a lot of favours for her?” Bucky asked.

“No. We’re not the kind of people that like to be in the business of having or giving debt,” Steve said. “Though she’s been holding this over me for about… three years now, so you must be pretty special for her to give it up.”

“What can I say,” Bucky grunted, splaying out his hands, and then pulling them back when he saw how dry they were, how his nails were ragged.

The waitress returned with the food and their conversation stalled again. Bucky ate, ravenous, and steadfastly ignored the way Steve’s jaw moved when he chewed, the shape of his mouth, the way he eyed Bucky as if he was trying to take him apart.

It made something wind tighter and tighter in Bucky’s chest. If this had occurred a few years prior, he would’ve already punched Steve. Hell, if it was six months prior, he would’ve at least got into his face. But now all he felt he could do was sit in silence, to let this man who had saved his ass figure him out if he so pleased.

But eventually the silence and the looks got too much, and Bucky wiped his hands on his jeans and forced himself to speak.

“Where’d you get so much money from, man?” he asked. He could see that Steve was clearly well-off, perhaps not a millionaire but certainly comfortable, but forking out twenty grand to fulfil a favour he owed seemed ridiculous.

“I got savings,” Steve said. He lifted his cup of Diet Coke to his mouth, and Bucky saw those scarred knuckles again. He narrowed his eyes. What ragged edges did Steve have that he just couldn't see yet?

“And you’re just gonna spend your savings on Nat’s friend?”

“I’d trust Natasha with my life,” Steve said with conviction.

“Right,” Bucky said, trailing off. He looked away from Steve’s hands even though every fibre in his body was begging him to ask what the hell they were about.

“What’d you do to get arrested?” Steve asked, and Bucky’s eyes shot up.

“Nothing.” 

“That’s what everyone says when they get arrested.”

Bucky shifted. He had always been selective about who he told about his past and what of that past he revealed, and sure, Steve had really helped him out, but he was still essentially _Nat’s friend from work_ , and Bucky wasn’t about to regurgitate his life story, let alone the events of the past day.

Steve was looking at him, leaning back in his seat. “What, you can ask me about the money I paid for _your_ bail but I can’t ask you about what got you arrested in the first place?”

Bucky looked at his food. He had a point.

“I was in the car of someone who had some _substances_ on his person,” he said vaguely.

“That’s it?” Steve looked unimpressed.

“What, you wanted me to have robbed someone?”

“Maybe for twenty thousand,” Steve said, eyebrows pulling together. “So the stuff wasn’t even yours?”

“No.”

“That sucks.”

“It does suck.”

“Why’ve they made it such a big deal if you just happened to be there at the wrong time?”

Bucky sighed internally. Maybe he was going to reveal his life story after all.

“I’ve got a record. Was kind of surprised they set my bail so low, actually, all things considered.”

“All things?”

“They tend to lighten up when you’re an addict. A recovering one, but same difference, really.”

“No, not really,” Steve said, pursing his lips slightly.

Bucky felt like shit for the tenth time that night. “You think less of me now?”

“No.”

“Sure you do,” Bucky said, laughing in a short, bitter exhale. “Don’t worry about offending me, I lost my sense of self-worth a _long_ while back.”

Steve furrowed his brow, went a little quiet. “Hey,” he said. “We’ve all got our vices.”

Bucky wanted to laugh again, loudly, in Steve’s face. Instead, he went for sarcasm, for anything to take the attention off himself and his own bad choices. Not that Steve looked like he’d made many, but still.

“What, you a cokehead?” he asked. Steve smirked, one side of his mouth twitching higher than the other.

“High functioning.”

“Classy.”

“My ma raised me well,” Steve said. He raised the pitch of his voice into a high, but soft, Irish accent. “ _Steven, if you plan on doing the hard stuff, at least keep your principles!_ ”

Bucky couldn’t help but snort. “Your mother’s Irish?”

“As they come.”

Bucky nodded. “Mine’s from Brooklyn. Her parents were from Cork, though, I think.”

His face must have given something away, or perhaps it was in his voice, but whatever it was Steve picked up on it and offered Bucky a smile, smaller this time, like he understood something. Like he saw that the subject of mothers was a touchy one for the both of them, even if for different reasons.

What did he see in Bucky? Did he recognise any of it? Did he recognise a person who’d been continuously beaten down by the world, repeatedly used by the people around him? Bucky would’ve said no, there was no way someone who looked like Steve did, who had the money Steve did, could possibly have experienced even a fraction of what Bucky had, but the night had been full of surprises, so he suspected that maybe Steve had some dirt under his nails after all.

Bucky cleared his throat. He didn’t understand why he was telling Steve this. It wasn’t like he was pouring his heart out to him or anything, but he never would’ve said that to anyone else, fearing that they’d pry deeper. Yet here he was, with Nat’s friend from work, telling him small things he never would’ve told anyone else.

Years spent with Brock, out of his mind, barely functioning, and he still hadn’t told him everything. Brock certainly didn’t know that Bucky’s biological mother was from Brooklyn. All Bucky had ever said was that he didn’t know if his parents were still alive, and that he never wanted to see them again if they were.

He forced the conversation over to Steve again.

“How’d a guy like you get to work with Nat?” he asked.

“A guy like me?” Steve challenged, lifting both his hands into the air and looking down at them. Bucky raised an eyebrow.

“Don’t pretend you don’t know what I’m getting at,” he retorted, eyeing the man sat opposite him. “I mean suit and tie, fancy car, fancy phone. You look like you eat plenty of fruit and veg. Don’t see no tattoos, no piercings. No track marks.”

Something flashed in Steve’s eyes. Bucky knew he’d hit some kind of truth. “You don’t know what the suit hides.”

“The custom Tom Ford? You got gang symbols all over your chest or something?”

Steve swiped a fry through some ketchup. “You’d be surprised what good tailoring can do.”

Bucky prodded again. “How’d you meet Nat?”

“We’ve known each other for a while now. Worked together.”

“She never mentioned you,” Bucky said, though he knew that was likely because he’d blocked her and a lot of other good people out for a long while, too preoccupied with his own shit. Natasha could’ve waved Steve’s picture in front of him and he still wouldn’t have recalled him the next day.

“She never mentioned you either,” Steve said, and Bucky smiled. He liked this antagonistic, barbed side to Perfect Steve. Gave him dimensions.

“I’m not surprised,” Bucky said. “I’m not the kind of guy a guy like you’d want to know.”

The two of them really couldn’t have been more different. Bucky felt like a piece of gum stuck to the bottom of Steve’s very nice, very shiny black shoes. He tucked his own legs back as if Steve could see his ratty grey sneakers through the table between them.

Steve gave him a look. “You don’t know the kind of guy I like,” he said. Bucky had the guts to hold his gaze this time, so saw when Steve’s dipped down to Bucky’s mouth and back up again.

“I think I do,” he said lowly.

“Is that so?”

Bucky feigned nonchalance, though his heart was racing. That seemed like pretty clear flirting to him, and flirting with Bucky, _a dude_? An unexpected bonus.

He wondered for a moment, his mind spiralling the way it always did, if Steve really was attracted to people who were the opposite of himself. If he liked dark and dangerous, if he liked people who had scars and messy hair and baggage, if it thrilled him to take a walk on the wrong side of the tracks.

Bucky knew he wanted to hop over to Steve’s side, even for a minute. He wondered how Steve would look below him, above him, shirtless, naked, pressed against him, and swallowed hard, trying to chase the thoughts away.

“How did she convince you?” he asked, hoping the slightly wobble in his voice wasn’t obvious.

“I owed her,” Steve said again. “And she knows I have a habit of picking up strays.”

…

It was three thirty a.m. when they got up and left. Bucky paid. It made him feel important to take the crumpled bills from his wallet and pay for the meal in its entirety, and Steve said it was a real treat. Bucky couldn’t detect any sarcasm in his tone, but could hardly believe he was being serious.

Their conversation, thought initially stilted, had flowed nicely for the remainder of their meal, and he did feel more comfortable now. Steve was a stranger, but a nice one. The assumptions that had formed in his mind the moment he saw Steve stood in the foyer had slowly crumbled. Steve was snarky and sarcastic and had a confidence that wasn’t cocky and was tinged by vulnerability, and he was hot as hell.

Bucky was almost mad at Natasha for not introducing him earlier, and then figured that she’d most likely done this on purpose. She always was twelve steps ahead of everyone else. She must’ve known Bucky would’ve liked Steve, got on with him, and that introducing the two of them when Bucky was the way he had been would’ve just been a waste.

Still, knowing that dawn was just a few hours away, and that he had to go get his car and get to Wanda and Pietro’s place and that the new day would shine a light on all of his problems, it was enough to make him jittery.

“Can I—” he said as they went into the parking lot of _Martinelli’s_ , the night air crisp and fresh, not yet thick with pollution. Steve halted and Bucky pulled out a half-empty pack of cigarettes from his jacket.

“Sure,” Steve said, and Bucky stood on the grass verge and searched for his lighter. He’d had it in his pocket when he’d been arrested, but it wasn’t in his bag of stuff.

“Shit,” he said, feeling his nerves beginning to crest inside him. Steve was looking at his phone again, but looked up when Bucky cursed.

“You need a lighter?” he asked, and Bucky nodded. Steve pulled open his door and rummaged inside, producing one and throwing it over. Bucky caught it and thanked him, lighting a cigarette and inhaling deeply, holding the smoke for a few seconds and then letting it bloom into the night air.

Steve came over. He’d taken off his tie and loosened the top two buttons of his shirt. In the light of the diner and the dimming moon he looked even hotter. Bucky focused on the glowing end of his cigarette.

“You want…?” he asked, offering it to Steve.

“If you don’t mind,” Steve said, taking it, their fingers brushing. He held it easily, like someone who knew how to smoke. He exhaled as he handed it back to Bucky, and didn’t even cough. Bucky nodded to himself and shuffled his feet, kicking at the tufts of grass.

A siren caught their attention and Bucky watched Steve as Steve watched an ambulance race past on the nearby overpass, deeper into the city. With Steve’s neck turned and his collar loosened he could see a tattoo on the side of his neck, dark against his pale skin, but low enough to be easily hidden by a properly buttoned shirt.

Bucky eyed it. “Nice tatt,” he said, and Steve’s hand came up to touch the ink.

“Got it when I was sixteen. My ma almost killed me and she was right—I do regret it.”

“Is it kind of shitty?”

“A lot shitty,” Steve laughed. “I go to proper artists now. They know what they’re doing when I give them designs.”

“You design your own tattoos?”

“Most of them,” Steve said. “Kind of don’t trust anyone else.”

“Why don’t you get that one covered then?”

Steve took the cigarette again. “I’m stubborn. And I got it for my ma, so. Can’t get rid of it.”

“Leprechaun and a pot of gold?”

Steve laughed. “No, a shamrock. Which you wouldn’t think would be an easy thing to mess up, but…”

Bucky hummed. He had plenty of crappy tattoos. It was kind of nice, seeing an imperfection on Steve.

“The neck’s a brave move. Most people wouldn’t go there for their first tattoo.”

“I was determined to make a statement,” Steve said. He rocked on his heels slightly, staring at the skyline. “Thought I was real tough back then. I was just a stupid kid, really.”

Bucky agreed. He had been that, exactly that. Good for Steve for getting out of that pattern.

“You know, I wanted to be a fighter?” Steve said. “Thought I could lean into my Irish heritage and get famous.”

“So that’s how you made your money,” Bucky mused, and Steve laughed again.

“Oh, no, I got knocked out more times than I’d care to admit. I was scrawny and couldn’t fight for shit. Couldn’t keep my mouth shut, either, so most of the fights was just me in some alley thinking I could deal with all the assholes of the world.”

“I think we would’ve been friends,” Bucky said.

“You reckon?” Steve asked. Bucky nodded. “Where’d you grow up?”

“New York—Brooklyn,” Bucky said. “Moved around a lot though. Foster care.”

Steve’s eyes widened slightly. “Ah,” he said. “Got it.”

“Not all of us had a nice Irish mother lookin’ out for us.”

“No one else had Sarah Rogers,” Steve said fondly. “Though I reckon the only thing she talked about in church was why I’d turned out to be such a pissy kid.”

“Catholic?”

“Yeah. Lapsed now, but…”

“Wow, I can really picture a young Steve Rogers,” Bucky said. He wondered if he should light another cigarette after this one was done, if it meant the conversation could keep going. “Catholic, Irish, angry. Bet the guilt thing really added some depth to your arena persona.”

“You better believe it,” Steve said. “You raised religious?”

“Jewish, kind of. Guess I’m lapsed too.”

Steve hummed this time. “What’s the guilt like with Judaism?”

Bucky looked up. “Oh, there’s absolutely none,” he said. “We all think we’re great.”

Steve laughed, and the sound made Bucky grin.

“See, I got no guilt to aid me in court,” he quipped, and Steve snorted.

“And if the judge is Jewish and finds out you’re lapsed?” he whistled. “Buddy, you got no hope.”

Bucky groaned. “Don’t say that,” he said. “I have to find a lawyer, too, and I can’t afford one. I don’t know if there’s like a fund at the temple to help me, I doubt it.” He scuffed his shoe through the dirt. “Lord knows I need a good one to convince the judge I’ve changed my ways. Like sure, I got a history, but I’m different now, that I held down a job for two years and that I’ve moved myself away to start afresh.”

“They’ll believe you,” Steve said, handing back the cigarette. Bucky took a drag, needing the smoke to calm his jittery nerves. Steve was making him nervous, and he needed to keep himself collected before he made a fool of himself.

“I don’t know,” he grimaced. “Some of them would be happy to make an example of me.” He shrugged. “I’ll wear a suit like you, cut my hair. Make myself look nice.”

Steve looked like he wanted to reach out, his arm twitching, but then thought better of it. “You look nice with your hair long,” he said, before his eyes widened and he looked down, the tops of his ears turning red.

Bucky rode the wave of smug pride that flowed through him at Steve’s words. “I tell you my legal woes and you flirt with me?” he deadpanned, and Steve ran his hand down his face. “Wish you were my judge,” Bucky said, and Steve snatched back the cigarette. “You’d let me go scot-free, wouldn’t you?”

“I’d get accused of favouritism,” Steve mumbled, and Bucky put his hand to his chest.

“I’m your favourite?” he asked, and Steve rolled his eyes. Bucky liked it, liked that the other man was getting a little flustered, that he wasn’t just a cool and confident guy, but able to blush and flirt and laugh. Bucky wanted to make him turn even redder. “You’re pretty cute too,” he said, and Steve coughed, going to his car.

“I can get you a good lawyer,” he said instead, clearly determined to derail the conversation. He opened the driver’s side door and rummaged for a moment, coming out with a slightly rumpled business card.

“You got friends in all the right places, huh?”

“Matt’s a great lawyer,” Steve said, and Bucky eyed the card. _Nelson & Murdock_, it read. _Attorneys at Law._

“You carry this thing around with you?”

“It comes in useful,” Steve said, shoving his hands in his pockets.

Bucky narrowed his eyes. “I’m starting to see why you and Nat are friends,” he muttered, sliding the card into his back pocket. “Thanks.”

He got to the end of the cigarette and stubbed it out, tossing it in the nearest appropriate trashcan because he was a degenerate, but he wasn’t an asshole. He and Steve got back in the car and took off.

“So,” Steve said after a minute or so. “Where am I taking you?”

“Uh, Elmhurst.”

“You got someone to stay with?” Steve asked. Bucky nodded, and then grimaced.

“I mean, not in Elmhurst, but, yeah.”

“Why’re you going to Elmhurst then?”

Bucky stared at a flashing sign above a 24-hour laundrette. “My car’s there. It has all my stuff in it.”

“And where are you going after that?”

“A friend’s place. Until Nat gets back from Europe.”

Steve didn’t say anything for a little while. Eventually he said, “Is this a good friend?”

Bucky knew what he was asking. Not whether this friend was close to Bucky, if he knew them well, but if they were decent people. Bucky regretted telling him he was in recovery. He didn’t want Steve to be concerned about him. It was well-placed concern, sure, and warranted as hell, but Bucky didn’t want it. Didn’t want Steve’s pity. He just wanted Steve to be Steve, not to be worried about Bucky’s shit.

“Yes,” he said. “Nat knows them. They’re cool.”

“Good,” Steve said. Bucky fidgeted. They were getting closer to Elmhurst, and thus to Bucky’s car and the drive to the twins’ place. He hadn’t seen them for over a year now, and had only kept in sporadic contact with Wanda. He hoped she wouldn’t mind. He really should’ve thought it over, called her, texted her like _hey, you mind me crashing at your place for a few days?_ But his decision to pack all his shit and leave had formed over the course of forty-eight hours and he hadn’t been thinking straight for all that time, and after the arrest he’d _really_ not been thinking about the minutia of his plan, though contacting the twins wasn’t exactly minutia at all, more like point A of points A through E.

Their place would be nice. It was a tiny little house shared between the siblings in the middle of the mostly Eastern-European neighbourhood, and the place would always smell of whatever food Wanda was cooking and of engine oil because Pietro was always fixing up cars to make them go faster than was strictly legal. It was nice. At least what Bucky remembered it being as was nice.

 _Shit_ , he thought. _What if they’re not even there anymore?_ It made sense. Wanda might not have thought to tell him during their once-a-month, three-texts-each conversations. Especially when he’d yelled at her for trying to help by getting him a therapist, someone who could look into his head and help him sift through the decade of crap that had been swirling there. He’d smashed one of her vases, stormed out of the house, slammed the door like a child, and told Pietro to fuck off. Pietro had called a day later, telling him not to be a dick to his sister.

But Nat would’ve told him if they’d moved. When he’d informed her of his plan to stay with the twins until Nat and Clint returned, she’d have told him if they’d changed addresses, or if she didn’t think it was a good idea. So it was fine, of course it was.

It wasn’t so much them that he was worried about, then. It was the drive over there, which he seriously didn’t want to make after being awake for almost thirty-six hours. So he’d have to sleep in his car, if he found a place to park it without getting into more shit with the cops. Maybe he’d park somewhere and Brock would stumble across him, or any of those other assholes. And if Brock found out Bucky trying to leave… Bucky didn’t want to know what mess he’d be in then.

“Bucky,” Steve said, his voice level. Bucky glanced at him and then out the window. They were almost into Elmhurst now. How long had he been stuck in his head?

“Yeah?”

“You don’t—you don’t have to, this is a totally open request and I’m not gonna be mad or nothing if you say no, but you can stay at my place for tonight if you want,” Steve said. It was the first time he’d really hesitated, or stumbled over his words since they’d met two hours earlier.

“It’s fine,” Bucky said. “I don’t want to intrude on your night any further.”

“You wouldn’t be intruding,” Steve said, his eyes earnest and so, so blue. “I’ve got room and it’s… I mean it’s morning soon, you can stay for a few hours, get some rest. I’d be happy for you to stay at my place and get yourself sorted.”

Bucky wanted to be humble, wanted to say no again, to make it more of an argument, more of a persuasion on Steve’s part and a gradual acceptance on his own, but he was tired and anxious about what would happen when he got to his car, and he’d been telling the truth when he’d said that he’d lost all sense of self-worth a long while back.

So he just said yes instead.

“Alright,” he mumbled. “Thank you, Steve.”

Steve smiled and made the first turn he could to take them away from Elmhurst.

“You promise you’re not a murderer?” Bucky said.

“And risk Natasha’s wrath?” Steve asked. “I’m not a total idiot.”

…

Steve’s place was a real nice one, a Brownstone feel but with modern glass and stone features. Bucky had to snap his jaw shut as Steve drove them into the underground garage and parked. He had never felt _this_ poor before. He’d always been surrounded by people in similar situations—finance-wise—as he was. Sure, he was aware of the wealth some people had, but when he didn’t have to see it, it eased the burden of living pay check to pay check.

Steve clearly didn’t live that way. Bucky held onto his stuff as they waited for the elevator, and Steve checked his phone again. He was emailing someone, a deep frown on his face.

“Everything alright?” Bucky asked as the doors slid open.

“Yeah,” Steve said. “Just work stuff.”

“Your mysterious job, huh,” Bucky mused as the elevator began to move. “You know I don’t really know what Nat even does? She’s said it’s to do with the military and with technology but that really doesn’t tell me anything.”

“I can assure you we’re not in the business of making or selling weapons,” Steve said, and Bucky huffed a laugh.

Steve’s apartment was the penthouse, and Bucky’s cheeks burned as he walked over the plush carpet leading to the front door. Steve’s shined shoes were immaculate, Bucky’s stained sneakers were abominable.

This feeling didn’t fade when Steve led the way into his home. Bucky gaped, and tried to take everything. It was all modern, granite and metal mixed with textiles and lush greenery in pots, and Steve fit right in. The view over the city was insane.

“This is…” Bucky said, shaking his head. “This is nuts, man.”

“I worked for it,” Steve replied, dumping his keys and phone on the kitchen counter.

“I don’t doubt that you did,” Bucky said. He turned on his heel, facing Steve again. “But Nat’s place isn’t as big as this.”

Steve shrugged. “I’m sure she likes to put her money elsewhere.”

Bucky realised, with a pang in his chest, that he didn’t exactly know much about the person he considered his best friend, and that it was entirely his fault. For years his excuse had been that he was too fucked up to notice anyone around him except the people offering the next hit, but he’d had a year or so to pay more attention to his friends, and he hadn’t. He’d been embarrassed and ashamed and a complete coward.

Though he hadn’t been to Nat’s place for a long time, he knew her well enough that she wasn’t about huge houses. She’d grown up in poverty, like Bucky had, and wanted nothing more than what was appropriate, what was suitable. He’d have to pay her a visit, and then perhaps he’d see if he was wrong. Maybe she lived in a penthouse, now. Or a castle.

Steve rubbed his hands together. “It’s late, so I’ll show you where you can sleep.”

“I’m not tired,” Bucky replied. It was the truth. He’d been exhausted in the station, but now he was just wired, vibrating with nerves. The stress of the last forty-eight hours, of deciding in the middle of his shift at the general store that he was going to quit and get away from Brock, of packing his shit into his car, accepting a ride from Brock, and of ending up in cuffs; it had culminated inside him, making him nervous.

Steve was already walking towards a hallway, though, so Bucky followed.

“You’ll need to sleep at some point,” he said. “And you should get some rest if you’re going to be driving a long while tomorrow.”

Bucky couldn’t argue with that, and Steve led him down the hallway and to a guest bedroom. It was a nice space, clean and tidy, with a big window and an en suite.

“You can leave your stuff here,” Steve said, gesturing out into the room. “There’s towels and stuff in the bathroom if you want to shower. Feel free to do whatever.”

Bucky murmured his thanks. A shower sounded like absolute bliss.

“It’s a big bed,” he said without thinking.

“It is.”

Bucky looked at him, and Steve didn’t look away. “I might get cold."

Steve’s mouth twitched. He looked at Bucky, and something about his gaze made Bucky’s stomach twist. Suddenly the air in the room seemed to vanish, and the space between his body and Steve’s tantalisingly small. Steve’s eyes were dark.

“I’m sure you’ll manage,” he said, his voice low. He put his hand on the door. “I’m going to hang my jacket up,” he said. “Feel free to change or whatever.”

And then he was gone, and Bucky watched him walk down the hallway and disappear into his own bedroom. Bucky shut the guest room door and exhaled. This was going to be one hell of a night.

…

Steve was stood with a drink, looking out through the windows at the urban landscape around him, when Bucky returned, showered and clean. He’d changed into the shirt and sweatpants he’d kept in his backpack, tossing the jeans and uniform shirt into the washer as per Steve’s instructions, so he’d have clean clothes to wear to the twins’ place. He’d revelled in the softness of Steve’s hand towels, and then moved to pull his hair back into a loose bun but stopped, remembering Steve’s earlier comment about liking how Bucky looked with his hair down.

“Hey,” Steve said, holding up his mug. “Decaf. Want one?”

“Sure, thanks,” Bucky said, and Steve went to the kitchen.

They sat on the couch and Steve flipped on the television, putting on something aimless and lowering the volume so they could talk. Bucky didn’t expect him to want to do so, but he wasn’t about to prematurely say goodnight and disappear into the guest room. He could sense the potential for something to happen, and didn’t want to miss it.

They chatted about whatever popped into their minds. It started with Bucky asking Steve if he was comfortable in his shirt and slacks get up, to which Steve reiterated his point about his lovely Tom Ford.

“A friend of mine wears them when he has to, which isn’t that often to be honest, but he said they were the best.”

Then Steve asked Bucky about his tattoos, and Bucky regaled a few stories about the ones on his arms—a spider after a seventeen-year-old Nat had convinced him, an ornate letter R for his sister, a pair of hands, a star. Some had dumb stories like Steve’s shamrock, and others were more meaningful.

“I think the moral of the story is to go to a good artist,” Bucky said, and Steve nodded, getting up to get some water.

“You get what you pay for,” he said. “I’m not sure everyone realises that.”

Bucky snorted. “Alright, shamrock. Don’t get a big head,” he said, and Steve rolled his eyes, but he was smiling, his hand grazing the side of his neck.

The conversation soon turned to Nat and Clint. Bucky shoehorned in another display of gratitude, thanking Steve for bailing him out which Steve promptly waved off.

“I told you, it’s a favour for Nat,” he said, and Bucky eyed him.

“You also said that she knew you liked picking up strays,” he commented, and Steve’s eyebrows lifted. “Care to explain what that means?” Bucky asked.

“Uhh… You don’t—” Steve started to say. “She just meant… I don’t know. I like helping people. She thinks I put other people first too much.”

Bucky put his chin in his hand. “Wow. You’re a saint.”

Steve narrowed his eyes. “Hardly.”

“Well, _I_ for one have never been accused of _helping people too much_.”

“Shut up,” Steve said, and Bucky laughed. “Tell me more about Natasha,” Steve said. “I want to know what she’s like from the perspective of someone who grew up with her.”

Bucky leapt into a story about his childhood with Nat, avoiding the parts that showed how fractured and traumatic his upbringing had been, not wanting to unload onto Steve about his life, let alone Nat’s, without thinking.

“We were our own little family,” Bucky said. “And she never gave up on me. I was a shit to her, and she was always there. I’ll forever be grateful for her treating me like I wasn’t worthless.”

“No one’s worthless,” Steve said, his voice softer than Bucky had expected.

“If you’d have met me a few years ago, I think you would’ve changed you mind,” he said dismissively, and then hurtled into an adjacent subject. “You know Clint Barton?”

Steve grinned. “Of course I do.”

Talking about Clint—and boy, was that an entire thing of its own—led into talking about jobs, and Steve told Bucky about his summer job in a movie theatre in Brooklyn as a teen.

“And how did that qualify you for what you do now?” Bucky asked, and Steve opened his mouth to answer before stopping, pointing his finger.

“Smooth,” he said. “You almost got me.”

“Just tell me,” Bucky whined. “Nat tells me nothing, Clint won’t either. Give me something, please.”

Steve sighed, scrubbing his hand through his hair. “Fine,” he said. “ _I_ design prototypes for veterans,” he said. “Arms, legs, you name it. And I attend a lot of conferences to discuss military _stuff_.”

“Top-secret stuff?”

“Yes.”

“And I don’t have clearance.”

“Not even enough to get in through the door,” Steve said, and then he sat upright, eyes shining. “And don’t even ask me about what Natasha does. She won’t tell me everything, either, but she always manages to pop up at conferences with information no one else has been able to get.”

Bucky squinted. “Okay… she’s a spy? A covert forces operative?”

“Uh-uh, you don’t get to ask! I don’t know and I don’t want her yelling at me.”

Bucky exhaled in disbelief. “She’s a spy, isn’t she? I should’ve known. She’d be great at that.” He took a sip of his drink. “Makes me look like even worse, actually,” he said. “You wanna know what I do?”

“You’re a spy who’s been sent here by Nat to get information on me…” Steve said, leaning back a little and pulling a face.

“I stack cans,” Bucky said, and then shook his head. “Or, I did.”

“We all gotta start somewhere,” Steve said, and Bucky couldn’t detect an ounce of pity in his voice.

“Yeah, but most people don’t still work in a grocery store when they’re twenty-six.”

“My mom did,” Steve said. Bucky grimaced and tried to figure out how he’d managed to wedge his foot so deep into his mouth so quickly.

“I’m not offended, I’m just saying. She worked at a grocery store and as a waitress for years, and it was only when she had me that she started working as a nurse.”

“Was she good?”

“At being a nurse?”

“No, at using a Swiffer,” Bucky deadpanned, and Steve rolled his eyes. Bucky laughed. “What? I need to know what the standard is!”

“She was the best,” Steve retorted.

“So what does she think of your top-secret job?”

“Uh, she passed when I was seventeen, so she only ever saw me at the movie theatre,” Steve said, and Bucky felt his chest contract. _Shit_ , he thought. _Shit._

“I’m sorry, Steve.”

“It’s alright,” Steve shook his head. “She told me I was destined for great things which was hard to believe when I was scraping gum and popcorn off carpet.”

Bucky offered him a smile, and then his mouth moved faster than his brain did, half fuelled by the desire to wipe away the sad look on Steve’s face.

“Not that I’m trying to one-up your sob story, or anything, but my mom _never_ told me what I was destined for,” he said.

“Did you just call the tragedy of my mother’s passing a _sob story_?”

“Yeah,” Bucky said. “And I’m saying mine’s better.”

“A better sob story,” Steve said, eyebrows lifting in a challenge. “Go on then.”

“There’s not much to it,” Bucky shrugged. How he was being so cavalier about the shit that had plagued him for his entire life, he didn’t know. He wasn’t drunk, wasn’t talking to a therapist type. It was just Steve. And he might have only known him a few hours, but he felt he could trust him. That Steve would understand and wouldn’t judge him. Maybe it was the massive debt Bucky had recently incurred from him that got him talking, but he wasn’t about to stop.

“Both my parents were shitty, for their own separate reasons. Me and my sister practically raised ourselves until social services came around. I haven’t seen my father or my mother since I was eleven, so who knows what they’re doing. They might even be dead.”

Steve looked at Bucky for a long moment. “And your sister?”

“Haven’t seen her since I was nineteen,” Bucky said. “It was my fault we lost contact.”

“I’m sure it wasn’t.”

“It was, I assure you. She was gunning for college and I was shooting up in some alleyway. I wasn’t about to get her involved. I always said I’d get a place of my own once I aged out of the foster system and that she’d come live with me but I was too fucked up to handle that. I knew it was better to leave her out of it.”

Steve nodded. “I was in foster care for a little while, after my mom died,” he said. “It’s rough.”

Bucky nodded as well. “That it is.”

“Though you got Natasha out of it,” Steve said, offering a bright side to the conversation.

“Yeah, I did,” Bucky said. “A miracle she hung with me, really. I was a shitty kid.”

“So was I,” Steve said. “Always fighting. I was like, barely a hundred pounds but I still didn’t know how to keep my mouth shut.”

“I can hardly believe that.”

“That I got into fights?”

“No, that you ever weighed less than one-eighty!” Bucky said. “I mean, Steve, look at yourself.”

“You know, it’s amazing what can happen when you eat well and exercise,” Steve said, and Bucky eyed him appreciatively, blatantly, mostly to see what Steve would do. “You look good too,” was his surprised retort, and Bucky scoffed.

“Don’t lie to my face,” he said. “I look like shit.”

“You don’t, Buck.”

Bucky picked at a hangnail. _Buck_ , his mind repeated, over and over, until he said, “I lost a lot of weight, wasn’t taking care of myself. I used to box, you know? Got real good. My councillor told me to start to help get my anger out in a controlled way, and I won a few tournaments.”

“Where’d you box?” Steve asked. “In the city?”

“Yeah, around the Brooklyn area, actually.”

“Goldie’s?”

“Yeah,” Bucky said. “You know it?”

“Used to walk by it every day,” Steve said. “We could’ve bumped into each other on the street.”

Bucky grinned. “You reckon we would’ve been friends?”

“Yeah. I think we would’ve been,” Steve said, and something in his eyes made Bucky think that perhaps they would’ve been more, in this alternate reality where Bucky had gotten his shit together and got with Steve. Maybe they’d be living it up in the city somewhere, pleasantly happy.

He took a steadying breath, unsure of whether to go for it or not. He’d felt that from the moment he’d seen Steve in the foyer of the station, there’d been something between them, and that something had been swaying back and forth, just in reach and they far away again, the whole night. He wondered what it would take for him to have the guts to grab the opportunity with both hands.

“I didn’t have many friends as a kid,” Steve said, and Bucky blinked away the heat swirling in his gut. Steve was interested, it seemed, but he had more control than Bucky did. He was smart enough to not ruin this tentative… _friendship_ … whatever it was they were forming, with rash decisions.

“You kept fighting anyone who tried?” Bucky joked, ignoring the slight wobble in his voice as he ignored the voice in his head that was screaming for Bucky to climb Steve like a tree.

“Something like that,” Steve said.

“I fought my friends too, kinda,” Bucky told him. “I mean, I met a lot of my friends at Goldie’s. So I did technically fight them. It’s not the same thing, is it?”

“Not really,” Steve said, amused.

“The guy I lived with, I met him in the ring. Guess I should’ve known how things would go when the first thing he did was beat my ass in front of the entire gym.”

Steve furrowed his brow. “This the guy who got bailed out before you? Natasha told me not to let you go anywhere near him.”

“Yeah,” Bucky said, face burning a little. He felt ashamed that Nat had warned Steve about the probability that he would waltz straight back to someone like Brock Rumlow, but he loved her for doing so. She knew what he needed, what he could find himself falling back into if he wasn’t careful.

“Brock,” he said, and he could’ve sworn Steve’s body stiffened at the mention of the guy, and Bucky hadn’t even told him anything yet. “We understood each other. We’d been through similar shit—abusive addicts for parents, foster care, anger issues… and he looked like he had it together from where I was standing.”

“And he didn’t,” Steve surmised, and Bucky nodded.

“No. I wasted years of my life because of him and the people he hangs around.”

Steve’s hand landed on Bucky’s knee. Bucky wanted to lean into the touch. It had been so long since he’d been cared for, since he’d let anyone care for him. His plan to go to Nat or to the twins had been plucked from the air, a desperate hope for someone to look out for him for three seconds, and it had taken a lot for him to admit that there was help if he wanted to accept it.

Nat said she trusted Steve with her life, so Bucky knew he had to trust him too. Steve would take care of him, Bucky figured. Steve would help him if Bucky asked.

“You’re so much stronger than him,” Steve said earnestly. “I know we barely know each other and all, but I can tell that you’re a strong person, Bucky. You’ve been through shit, but you’ve got the strength and the conviction to pull yourself up. Natasha didn’t say much, but she said you were finally realising you were worth it.”

Bucky swallowed hard. A few years ago, and he probably would’ve punched Steve for talking to him like that. He hadn’t come looking for advice or support, but here it was anyway. It felt good.

“Thanks,” he said, embarrassed, and Steve’s hand withdrew.

Bucky stared at the TV for a moment, the moving images a blur of colour and light. It was close to four thirty, now, but he was happy to sit here with Steve until the sun rose. Maybe then he’d regret saying all this stuff, but he didn’t have to ever see Steve again if he didn’t want to, so perhaps it wasn’t such a big deal.

“I’m not going back there,” he said after a few minutes of silence. “To Brock or any of that shit. I’m not.”

“Good,” Steve said.

“I’m scared though. I know it’s gonna be hard, but I—”

“But you’re worried there’ll be too many obstacles,” Steve said sagely.

“Yeah,” Bucky said, looking at his hands. “Shit, I mean, I barely graduated high school, flunked out of college after a week. I’m in recovery but I’m nowhere near _recovered_ , and no one’s gonna want to hire me for anything, and I can’t afford my own place or to go to school.”

“You will,” Steve said. “You’ll get your own place, Buck. You’ll do everything you set your mind to.”

“You sound so sure,” Bucky said, anger simmering in his voice, though it wasn’t meant to be directed at Steve. It was a burning, inward anger, a disappointment at himself and the fear that he’d always feel that way.

“That’s because I’ve been there,” Steve said heavily. “I was an addict for years, actually, and it took me a long time to get myself clean. I couldn’t even admit that I had a problem, not even when I woke up in a hospital bed because I’d almost OD’d myself.” Steve shook his head, a distant look in his eyes, and then he looked back at Bucky and offered him a smile. “I feel like we’re less different than you think. I get it when you say you’re scared. And I’m here to tell you that you’re gonna make it. You’re not alone, Buck.”

Bucky cleared his throat. So, Steve had been serious, then, when he’d remarked that everyone had vices, that he was high-functioning.

“You were joking about the coke, though, right?” he asked, and Steve laughed.

“Yeah,” he said. “No, I was on morphine. I was sick as a kid, and then my mom got ill too. I was always surrounded by pain meds so it seemed inevitable, really.”

Bucky nodded. It sounded shitty, but Steve seemed the kind of guy to get addicted to something as white-collar as morphine. Bucky could imagine him using all the smooth marble surfaces around them and a rolled up fifty to snort it up.

“Yeah, I started with alcohol,” Bucky said. “It was everywhere, so. I used to drink as a teenager and get kicked out of homes, and then I actually did get into coke.”

“One step above what I was doing,” Steve remarked. “Not much difference, really.”

“No, barely any at all,” Bucky said dryly, and Steve bumped him with his knee.

“You know what I mean,” he said, and Bucky smirked.

“I can tell you’re neurotic enough to be high-functioning,” he said. “I can see why Nat likes you.”

“She likes high-strung people?”

“If that’s the word you want to use, sure,” Bucky said, and Steve shook his head. “So how’d you get yourself to stop?” Bucky asked.

“I, uh, I OD’d, woke up in rehab. Found a letter from my mom that made me realise how much she wanted for me and how I was about to mess it all up, so I booked myself into rehab. Had a good support system as well, some good friends. I’m four years sober as of May.”

Bucky smiled, a genuine one, and Steve returned it. Bucky lifted his drink.

“Well cheers to that,” he said, and Steve clinked his mug to Bucky’s.

Bucky knew he should get to bed if he wanted to be alert for whatever was about to happen next, for the first day of his new life, but he couldn’t pull himself away from Steve. He couldn’t stop talking to him, about his hopes and fears, and he was glad that Steve was happy to listen, was happy to give advice, was happy to share with Bucky about his own past.

Steve hadn’t just done Nat a favour. He’d bailed Bucky out so he didn’t end up stuck at the station. He’d offered him a place to sleep—granted, he hadn’t done any of that yet—and pointed him in the direction of a lawyer who would help him. He’d listened to him, to what he had to say. Bucky knew he was only putting himself into deeper and deeper debt to the man, but somehow he couldn’t stop digging.

He’d always tended to go into things headfirst or not at all, and this was no different. What would Nat say, if she saw how he was acting? Would she warn him about messing around with Steve when he was in the midst of sorting his own life out? Objectively, becoming addicted to Steve was way better than anything Bucky had been doing previously, but the point remained. Bucky had to be careful. If he was going to do anything, he had to weigh up the costs and benefits.

He watched Steve tidying away stuff in the kitchen, his mind beginning to race.

Pros; Steve was hot and funny and understood Bucky in a way that was so much better than how Brock or anyone else had. He was friends with Nat who had already given a glowing recommendation of his character. He had his shit together but knew how it was to lose everything.

Cons; Bucky might not be able to handle his own recovery if he let himself get too involved with Steve.

It was a big con, yes, but a voice in Bucky’s head was saying something revolutionary. _Steve was part of Bucky’s recovery. He was something good, something to reach for. He was someone to make proud. He was someone who would be proud._

Steve turned, jolting Bucky out of his thoughts.

“I’m exhausted,” he said, barely stifling a yawn. “I’m gonna head to bed.”

Bucky nodded mutely. He wanted to be friends with Steve. He wanted to be more, clearly, but he wanted his friendship more than anything. Whatever came after would be deserved.

Steve was bending down to pick a bottle cap from the floor.

_Steve was also really, really hot._

Bucky walked forward a few steps, and Steve threw the cap in the trash and turned off the kitchen the lights. The space was lit only by a few lamps, and Steve seemed to glow in the darkness. Bucky approached Steve, who looked at him, stopping by the counter.

Bucky telegraphed what he was about to do. Steve just stood there, his chest rising and falling, his lips slightly parted, his eyes dark. Bucky moved in, backing him against the counter, and put his hands on Steve’s hips. Steve’s hand slid up Bucky’s arm to the back of his neck.

“Buck,” he said, his voice low, dangerous, calming, and Bucky leaned in, kissing Steve the way he had wanted to since the moment he’d laid eyes on him. Steve leaned into it, his mouth opening against Bucky’s, his body pressing up against his, a soft moan pulled from his throat when Bucky rocked his hips.

Steve’s hands kept moving, one minute one was at his neck, the next at his jaw, then in his hair, and then one twisting in the back of Bucky’s t-shirt, and then one dipping down to his waistband. Bucky just held onto Steve, angling his jaw with a gentle thumb at its hinge.

“Fuck,” Steve gasped, when Bucky mouthed down his neck and jaw. He pulled Bucky up to kiss him again, legs parting, and Bucky felt himself burn.

“Wait, wait,” Steve panted, pulling away. “I don’t think this is a good idea.”

“You have a lot of those, do you?” Bucky shot back, leaning in again, tugging at Steve’s bottom lip.

“More than you,” Steve replied, and Bucky grinned, shifting back again. Steve blinked at him, his pupils blown out. “I want this,” he said, his nails scratching lightly at Bucky’s lower back. “ _Fuck,_ I want this, and I know you do too.”

Bucky pressed his hips forward, pushing his dick against Steve’s hip and watching the taller man’s eyes flutter.

“But it’s late, and you’ve got stuff to do and so do I and I don’t want to ruin this,” Steve said. “Buck, believe me, if this was any other night I’d let you do what you wanted to me, but right now, I want to wait, okay?”

“I thought you said you were lapsed,” Bucky murmured, and Steve rolled his eyes again, kissing Bucky one last time and then pushing him back fully, though his hand twisted in the front of Bucky’s shirt.

“When you’re at Natasha’s, when you’re settled, I’m gonna take you on a date,” he said.

“Is that a threat?”

“Yeah,” Steve breathed. “So you better not get yourself locked up, okay?”

“Good thing I’ve got a lawyer,” Bucky said, smiling, and Steve ran his hand through his hair, still catching his breath.

…

Bucky slept better than he had done for years in Steve’s guest bed. It was huge and soft and smelled amazing and he got almost six hours sleep which was a god damn blessing.

He awoke marginally confused at first as to where he was exactly, and then remembered everything. The arrest, the station, the diner, and Steve, the feeling of his body against Bucky’s, his smile, his generosity. He opened the door of the guest room and found his clothes neatly folded on the carpet, waiting for him. He pulled them on. They smelled really good.

He walked blearily out of the guest bedroom into the hallway, padding into the living area on the hunt for coffee. On the large rectangular table that he assumed was used less for eating food at and more for doing work at was a laptop, some ring binders, and sheets of paper, as well as a pen and a pair of thick-framed glasses.

 _Shit_ , Bucky thought to himself, at the thought of Steve wearing them as he worked.

He rounded the corner into the kitchen, and was met with the man himself.

“Shit,” Bucky said to himself, out loud.

Steve was stood by the stove, his back to Bucky, wearing nothing but a pair of loose sweatpants, not dissimilar to the ones Bucky owned if not ten times more expensive. Bucky had managed to get a good feel at Steve’s body when he’d cornered him just a few hours ago, but touching was a lot different to actually seeing the man.

Steve’s shirts had been obscene, but Steve himself was a sin. Bucky had never before considered himself a man who could appreciate someone’s back, but Steve’s he felt he’d be happy to look at all day. His skin was pale, smooth, muscles shifting underneath. Steve clearly took care of himself.

And Bucky couldn’t believe the tattoos he was seeing. He saw the edge of the shamrock, and then on Steve’s shoulders was more detailed work, fading out on his left arm and turning into a sleeve on the right. As if the guy hadn’t killed Bucky already.

“Good morning,” Steve greeted cheerily, turning around, and Bucky had to grip the countertop out of fear his legs were going to give out. Bucky had been fit in his younger years, bulky, but Steve was like a godamn statue. Michelangelo would’ve thought his work had come to life.

“Mornin’,” Bucky stuttered, though it was basically noon.

“You sleep alright?” Steve asked.

“Yeah, great, thanks,” Bucky replied. He pushed his hair behind his ears. “How long have you been awake?”

“An hour or so,” Steve said. “Got a call from my contact in London, needed to do some work for her.”

“Do you ever sleep?” Bucky yawned. Steve pushed a mug of coffee towards him and shrugged.

“It’s busy for me at the moment, I don’t mind the odd hours.”

Bucky sipped his coffee and groaned. When he looked at Steve again, he felt himself flush.

“What?”

“Nothing,” Steve said, and Bucky narrowed his eyes.

“You’re doing that on purpose,” he said, and Steve raised his hands as if to say _what?!_ “Walking around shirtless, and I can tell you’re flexing.”

“Am not,” Steve said, making his pecs twitch. Bucky nearly choked on his coffee. “Not all of us can look like you do with all our clothes _on_.”

Bucky scoffed. As if his scrawny ass looked _good_ to a guy who looked how Steve did. “That line work with everyone?”

“You tell me,” Steve said, and then turned back to the stove. He looked over his shoulder after a minute, catching Bucky’s eye, drawing his attention away from the dimples at the base of Steve’s spine. “You’ve got a billion texts and missed calls by the way. Brock and someone called Rollins? Seem kind of pissed.”

“You looked at my phone?”

“I glanced at it when it almost broke my coffee table, yeah,” Steve replied. Bucky went over to where they’d been sat the night before and grabbed his phone. He was surprised he’d left it there at all.

Steve was right. Bucky had almost fifty text messages, and the phone calls had reached the teens. He felt his chest tightening in dread. He knew his car was safe, and that his stuff was too, but Brock could’ve found it. He had enough contacts that he could’ve had someone locate the vehicle pretty quickly, and a pissed Brock was one Bucky was still afraid of.

He scrolled through a few of the texts. Rollins was echoing Brock, albeit less threateningly, at one point saying how he’d miss his smoking sessions with Bucky, but Brock was decidedly more colourful. At first he was just gloating that Pierce had bailed him out, then he’d quickly moved on to discussing what Bucky could do for him when he stopped fucking around and came back to the only family he had.

 **_Brock:_ ** _Alex will forgive you if you come back_

 **_Brock:_ ** _don’t be a dick_

 **_Brock:_ ** _You owe me, barnes_

Then came the threats, the slurs, and everything else Brock could think of. Bucky felt his hands beginning to shake as he scrolled, and then he exited out of the chat. He felt sick, he felt like the world was tilting. The calm and bliss he’d felt in Steve’s apartment was being corroded. Bucky had been right; in the light of day his problems seemed so crystalline, so close, so huge, and it made Bucky feel like he was trapped.

“Breakfast,” Steve called from the kitchen, and Bucky was able to acknowledge him briefly before looking back down at his phone. His thumb hovered over the screen, and he took a breath, before swiftly blocking Rumlow and Rollins.

He exhaled. _Fuck_. Why did shit like this, which was meant to be good for him, the best thing for him, make his chest ache?

The others texts were from Nat and Clint. Nat was asking where he was, if he was alright, if he was on his way to Wanda and Pietro’s house. Clint was telling him about the pizza place they’d order from when Bucky came over. And then there was Wanda, on the behalf of herself and her brother, welcoming Bucky to stay for as long as he needed.

 **Wanda:** _It will be lovely to see you, James. We’ve missed you xx_

It made his heart warm. He bit his lip, and quickly typed out a few replies.

 **Me:** _i’m fine, Nat. Steve is great i can’t believe u didn’t tell me about him before. i’ll stay with the twins until ur back in the states._

 **Me:** _pizza sounds great but no anchovies!!!_

 **Me:** _thank you, Wanda. I’ll see you soon—J_

And then he pocketed his phone and turned to face Steve.

“Everything alright?” Steve asked, and Bucky wiped his hands on his thighs.

“Yeah. Yeah it is.”

Steve waved his fork in the air. “Good, because Nat called to ask if you were okay.”

“What did you say?”

“That you stayed at my place.”

Bucky sat down and arched an eyebrow. “What did she say about that?”

“She was glad to know that we’re well on our way to becoming good friends,” Steve said, smiling at his plate. “And that I kept my hands to myself.”

“Ah, so _you’re_ the problem after all,” Bucky said, and Steve looked up, challenging him.

“You didn’t seem to think that last night,” he smirked, and Bucky had to focus on his food and not on the pout of Steve’s lips.

…

Just before one, Bucky was ready to collect his car from where he’d hidden it. Steve reminded him about _Nelson & Murdock, _Bucky thanked him again, and they stood a little too close to each other for longer than was necessary, making up things to say to each other.

Bucky started to get the jitters and sat out on the balcony to smoke. He didn’t want this little bubble to burst. He knew he was being ridiculous, but he really liked Steve. Bucky was the most realistic person you could meet—he had to be after everything he’d been through, everything he’d done and seen—but now he was halfway across the city, further away from Brock and the others than he had been in the last six years.

It was scary as hell, but he was doing it. And he could feel that the fear was going to culminate into anger if he wasn’t careful, that if he let himself slip he’d reject everyone again, but he knew he had to trust himself. He could work through it. Steve had said he was worth something. That he was strong enough to keep going, to keep doing what he was doing.

He jumped when the glass panel doors slid open, and lit a second cigarette.

“Nervous?” Steve asked, and Bucky nodded.

They stared out at the city for a few moments, until Bucky offered Steve the cigarette. Steve took it and joined him, sitting on the bench that was against the wall. He inhaled and then blew smoke out into the clear blue sky. Bucky could sense he was working himself up to say something, and suddenly felt that it was going to be something bad, something that would break the bubble from the inside.

“Before you go,” Steve said, clearing his throat. “And I know this isn’t really my place…”

“Then step back,” Bucky told him, fighting to keep the bite out of his words and mostly failing.

Steve didn’t take any notice. “I just… take this,” he said, and handed Bucky a scrap of paper with a number scrawled on it. “He’s a good guy. He helped me out a lot, got me out of the dark place I was in, that I know you want to get out of too.”

Bucky stared at the numbers. How did Steve do this? How did he see him so clearly? How could he tell that there were two types of darkness Bucky was fighting with, the one brought in by people like Brock, and the one that had been bred into Bucky’s soul after years of being let down, betrayed, mistreated.

 _Because he’s gone through that darkness as well_ , said his head.

“A therapist,” Bucky murmured, the words too big in his mouth.

“A friend,” Steve said.

“I got enough friends.”

“I know you do, but the ones you’ve just cut off… they were no good.”

“Sure they were,” Bucky joked hollowly. “They turned me over so I didn’t choke on my own vomit.”

Steve made a sound of disapproval, and Bucky scrubbed at his eyes, hating himself for saying stupid shit. He was deflecting—his adolescent councillor had told him that enough times that he’d never forget.

“There’s nothing wrong with therapy,” Steve said. “I go every week.”

Bucky nodded. “Sorry.”

“You didn’t mean it.”

“No. No, I didn’t.”

The thought of therapy was an exhausting one, but he knew that if it wasn’t Steve, the man of the hour, to push him into it, it would end up being Nat or Clint or the twins. Bucky thought of his sister, of how he wanted to make her proud.

“Thanks, Steve,” Bucky said, and Steve nodded, handing back the cigarette.

…

Steve saw Bucky to the elevator, but Bucky wouldn’t let him walk him out to the street, or drive him, deciding he wanted to find his car himself, alone. Wanted to leave Steve here for the moment.

“I’ll call you,” Steve said.

“You haven’t got my number,” Bucky replied.

“Natasha gave it to me,” Steve shrugged. He smiled, pushed a lock of hair behind Bucky’s ear. “Let me know when you’re safe, yeah?”

“Yeah,” Bucky said. He wanted to kiss Steve one more time, so he did. It was brief, chaste, but it made his toes tingle, and made Steve’s cheeks turn red.

The elevator doors slide shut. Bucky slumped against the wall, closing his eyes for a brief moment, before pulling out his phone. He texted Wanda.

 **Me:** _Omw to yours. should be there by five-ish._

She replied thirty seconds later.

 **Wanda:** _!! I’ll get Pietro to move his car!!!_

Bucky smiled. He walked through Steve’s building, and then out into the street. The city was loud around him, moving, alive. The air was cold. The sun was bright. He walked down the sidewalk, headed for the subway.

His phone buzzed as he went through the turnstiles.

_This is Steve._

_You like Italian food?_

Bucky grinned as the train whistled up to the platform. He hadn’t had Italian food for years.

**Author's Note:**

> saturnblushes on tumblr and pinterest :) hope everyone is staying safe and being responsible!


End file.
